


Don’t Let’s Stop or The Case of the Dead Philandering Politician (A Draco Malfoy Mystery)

by i_l0ve_my_az (thebodyeclectic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-25
Updated: 2009-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:19:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebodyeclectic/pseuds/i_l0ve_my_az
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Draco Malfoy is a Forensic Analyst employed by the DMLE, has an ongoing feud with Coulson who works days, irreparably frightens assistants, imbibes massive amounts of coffee and quite possibly engages in too much snarky banter with his liaison, Inspector Potter.  (Bones Fusion)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t Let’s Stop or The Case of the Dead Philandering Politician (A Draco Malfoy Mystery)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Harry/Draco Career Fair for kittie8571.

Draco hates being on call when it rains.

Granted, he lives in England, so every three out of five crime scenes he's had to investigate in the last four years has had its fair share of rain. _Why can't all murders happen indoors,_ is what he thinks. He hates it because rain washes away evidence - fingerprints, blood, semen, saliva - and soaks corpses. He hates having to perform autopsies on soggy cadavers, skin sometimes sliding off muscle like jelly.

"'Bout time you got here," Inspector Sun growls, giving Draco a look that clearly indicates that he thinks Draco has been wasting his time on purpose.

"Was busy," Draco shoots back. "You know as well as I that we're severely understaffed." Draco doesn't like Sun much but he respects the man. Sun was one of the first non-Caucasian non-Pureblood Aurors the Office took on back in the 60s and he'd fought his way through inter-departmental politics and proven himself time and again to become a highly respected veteran.

Draco feels a kinship of sorts with the man and thinks it's only right that Sun had been drafted to co-head the Crimes Committed Against Persons of Interest sub-division of the DMLE.

"Body's over there," Sun nods to a cordoned off area, kept from public view by way of a few cloaking spells.

Draco shifts his kit from one hand to the other and makes his way to the crime scene. Sun falls into step beside him. "Who's handling the press?"

Sun huffs out a laugh. "Potter."

*

Contrary to popular opinion, being a Forensic Analyst requires more skill than just casting a Priori Incantatem spell. Draco has been tempted, more than once, to lecture the detractors who stand outside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement protesting the use of taxpayers' money and the _Prophet_ reporters who write uncomplimentary articles regarding the relevance of his job.

Draco has spent the past half hour collecting evidence, casting a stasis spell over Otto Kapranos's corpse and steadily cursing the rain, fearing an inevitable cold, when an umbrella appears over his head.

"Nearly done, Draco?"

Draco nods but doesn't pause his spellcasting. Potter knows better than to expect an answer while he's busy.

"Sun's bringing Peasegood 'round to transport Kapranos to the labs."

Draco rolls his eyes and collects the last of his samples. He casts a spell to ensure that all of his vials are properly sealed before shutting his kit. He stands and brushes off his trousers. "Done, Potter. This isn't as easy as I make it out to be, you know."

Potter grins, thrusting a paper cup filled with steaming tea at him. "I know. No need to keep reminding me."

"If you're as knowledgeable as you claim to be, you wouldn't persist on rushing me every single time," Draco replies, grabbing the cup and thrusting his kit at an approaching Peasegood. "Give me your kit. Take these to the lab along with the body. Start the preliminary analysis on the tissue samples. I don't want you touching the magical residue yet."

Peasegood fumbles with his kit as he snatches hers out of her hands. "Yes, Dr. Malfoy," she stammers, navigating her enormous slicker and his large kit.

"Wotcher, Eleanor," Potter grins, winking at her as he places a hand on the small of Draco's back with the intent of steering him.

Draco is appalled to see Peasegood blush like a schoolgirl. She catches his baleful stare and hastily scurries away.

"Stop flirting with my assistants," he growls at Potter. "This one has potential, at least. I don't want you filling her head with silly notions."

Potter snorts with amusement. "I have never flirted with any of your assistants. It's called being nice, Draco."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "It's called being a gentleman of ill-repute, Potter. I'm sure you've got her knickers all wet. Who was Kapranos with before his death?"

"The front desk believes he was with a woman who was _not_ Mrs. Kapranos. And I was not flirting with her! She's a good ten years younger than us; I wouldn't sink that low."

"I'm sure," Draco sneers, sipping at his tea while Potter directs him to the lifts, calling out orders to the Aurors guarding the hotel entrance and lobby.

*

After the War, after he lost everything that was unimportant, Draco had few paths available to him. His family still had their château in France, their villa in Italy and their chalet in the Swiss Alps - they were outside the Ministry's jurisdiction and less than genial ties with the Ministries of the aforesaid countries prevented swift retribution - and Draco could have continued life as he'd always believed his would turn out. He would marry, sire children, attend to the upkeep of the Malfoy property and attend parties upon parties. The specifics would be different; everything else his parents had planned for him would remain the same.

But Draco'd had a taste of freedom. He knew he would lose it if he regressed to old roles - like donning an old robe only to find that you've outgrown it. He is his own man now.

So, he subscribed to journals and periodicals and came to the conclusion that forensic magic was the brave new frontier and that the Americans had the hegemony of it.

With a dated recommendation from Snape and the one bestowed (if grudgingly) upon him by the Ministry for services rendered in the Second Wizarding War, Draco packed his bags and headed off to the start of the rest of his life.

*

"You would think a man of Otto Kapranos's standing would patronize better hotels than this," Draco sneers, casting a Revealing Charm over the room's carpeted floor. He sees a bit of fungus and mould in a corner and casts a baleful eye at the bellhop whom Potter had insisted accompany them.

The boy - and he couldn't have been a day over seventeen, by Draco's estimation - manages to give him a sheepish look before resuming his ill-concealed starstruck mooning of Potter.

"If he'd brought his mistress to a place like Avalon, his dealings would hardly be kept secret from Mrs. Kapranos, Draco."

Draco shifts his focus from the carpet to the dinette. "You, boy." He waves imperiously at the bellhop.

"Yes, sir?"

"When did you bring dinner in for Mr. Kapranos?"

The boy stares blankly at the used dinnerware before tilting his head in approximation of thought. "Erm, I think about, well..."

Draco sighs; clearly someone must have pierced his brain along with the half dozen or so holes in his ear. "Is the question too difficult for you? Do you need me to fetch the Veritaserum?"

The boy visibly trembles.

Potter moves to his side, placing a placating hand on his shoulder. "Really, Draco, there's no need to be so threatening." Potter turns towards the boy, all smiles. "Taran - it is Taran, isn't it?" The boy nods eagerly. Draco represses the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, Taran, we'd really appreciate it if you could tell us when you brought dinner up for Mr. Kapranos. As accurate as possible, if you could."

"I think it was about a quarter past nine, sir!"

Potter nods thoughtfully. "Are you quite certain?" Draco takes the opportunity to dislodge Potter's hand from his shoulder and move to the bed.

"Oh, yes, sir!" the boy chirps. "It was just after _The Krups_ were on _Never Mind the Basilisks_. I was glad that the kitchen took a tad too long making up dinner; I am a _huge_ Mick Davies fan!"

Draco gives in to his urge and rolls his eyes while his back's to Potter and the boy. He casts a Revealing Charm on the bedspread and sees the usual array of semen stains, holes from cigarettes, stray hairs and bed bugs. He's about to move away when he spots something brown on the otherwise blue sheets. Closer inspection reveals olive-green powdery residue. He has his suspicions of the identity of the powder but nonetheless retrieves a vial from Peasegood's kit.

Stoppering the vial, he looks up to see Potter entering the en suite bathroom. "Put your gloves on, Potter. I'll not have you contaminating the premises."

"Sorry!" he hears Potter call from the loo. Draco sighs and shakes his head. He does a lot of sighing these days since Colfer deserted him for days, leaving him to deal with the brunt of the division's work. Unsurprisingly, this has resulted in a prolonged exposure to Potter, the Department's poster boy.

Moving back to the dinette, Draco notes the remains of a roast, chocolate cake and champagne flutes. He pokes around under the tablecloth and chairs, scans the room. "Potter! Do you see any champagne bottles in there?"

"What?" Potter sticks his head through the door, brow furrowed.

Draco gestures at the table. "Champagne flutes but no bottle."

Potter looks thoughtful before replying with a very unhelpful, "Huh."

Draco eyes narrow in annoyance. He turns to the bellhop. "You."

"Me?" the boy squeaks out.

"You _did_ bring up a bottle of champagne, did you not?"

"Er, I guess. I think so, yeah."

Draco raises an unamused eyebrow. He turns back to the table and snags the two flutes, storing them in his kit. Potter has moved on to questioning the boy on the missing champagne bottle. Draco moves to the bathroom.

He's in the midst of declaring the bathroom as a complete waste of time when he hears Potter clearing his throat. "Yes?" He rises from his crouch in front of the tub. Potter has a habit of hovering over him while he's bent over examining something or the other. Draco doesn't like to dwell too much on the implications of that.

"I'm heading down to speak with the manager and coerce Mr. Kipkoech - the bellhop, Draco, don't think I don't know that you've been wanting to strangle him since you'd first laid eyes on him. I'm going to organize a search for that bottle. The trainees aren't going to like it but that's what they're here for. You ready to leave?"

Draco strips off his gloves and stuffs them into the kit before snapping it shut. "Good to go. You don't need to worry yourself too much over that bottle, Potter. I can use whatever is left in the flutes to run an analysis."

They move to the door. "I don't like leaving any stone unturned, Draco. Missing champagne bottle. It seems like an integral piece of the puzzle to me."

"Don't work yourself to death trying to maintain your record, Potter."

Potter huffs out a laugh. "Pot, kettle. You're practically running your entire division yourself, Draco. And my record? I think yours is better than mine. I haven't gone and solved cold cases in my spare time."

"Coulson works days and I hardly interfere with his cases, I'll have you know, so your claims of my workaholic tendencies are preposterous." Draco sniffs. "And those cold cases are part of my job."

"Oh, alright," Potter concedes, hand keeping the lift doors open, a ridiculous habit over which Draco's often berated him. "We're both astonishingly dedicated to our jobs. Let's not fight. We've both long hours ahead of us."

"This would have been a relatively nice open and shut case, if Kapranos weren't Head of Magical Games and Sports. Man gets robbed, has heart attack and dies outside hotel where he's been meeting his mistress. There's poetic justice in that, don't you think?"

Potter gives him a look that Draco likes to think of as fond but is probably just exasperated.

"It's true and you know it. We're the both of us wasting valuable time and manpower on this case because some Ministry bigwig didn't have brains enough to keep it in his trousers, couldn't Floo home in case his wife finds out where he's been and decided to Apparate outside a hotel situated between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley in the dead of night."

"It's the price we pay to keep on doing our jobs. I wouldn't want to do anything else and I know you feel the same. So chin up." Potter grins as they walk out into the lobby. "You can complain all you want when you see Ron tomorrow afternoon."

That makes Draco break out a devious smile. "If he wants my opinion on a present for his wife, he'll have to pay my consultation fee."

"How is that any different from how you two normally act?" Potter quips. He grabs Draco by the elbow just before they get to the hotel entrance. "If I don't see you before your shift ends, well, have a good night."

Draco looks him in the eye, amused. "Don't you mean 'good morning'?"

*

Three hours after his shift is supposed to end, Draco puts on his coat, warns Coulson off touching the samples he's prepping for analysis later tonight, takes his preliminary report on the Kapranos case and makes his way to Potter's desk.

The Forensics Lab and the offices of Potter's sub-division (the newly instated Crimes Committed Against Persons of Interest - read: Ministry officials and prominent or wealthy citizens) are on the same floor but are separated by three different division offices. Draco could send an inter-departmental memo or get one of Coulson's many interns to deliver this report for him, there isn't anything particularly classified in it - Kapranos had a heart attack at around one in the morning, received head wounds consistent with being bashed over the head with a bin lid then was robbed - _but_ , he justifies to himself, he would like to hear any new information Potter's managed to uncover.

He doesn't think of the fact that Potter would've gone to the labs straight away if he'd _had_ any new information, as he's done consistently for the past three years.

He passes cubicles and nods to the Aurors he's worked with before. He's actually worked with nearly all of the Aurors currently employed by the Ministry save for the few stubborn veterans who refuse to consult the Forensic Science Division.

Potter isn't at his desk. The tatty black peacoat draped over the back of his chair and the glasses perched on top of a pile of reports indicates that Potter is out on another case or still following up on the Kapranos case.

Draco prods at Potter's glasses with a finger. Potter doesn't like wearing his glasses while he's out of the office. Rumor has it that some clever felon had spelled Potter's glasses to shatter during an adrenaline-fuelled chase. The only truth in that story is the bit about the chase. Potter had been chasing a suspect when his glasses flew off and tripped him. Draco still remembers Potter's flush as he recounted that adventure while they sat at their usual booth at the Leaky having lunch at two in the morning.

He sets the Kapranos file beside the stack of reports, deciding to gift Potter with a case for his glasses this Christmas.

Draco makes a stop at the Magical Menagerie to purchase tins of cat food before heading home to his flat in Soho. He exchanges pleasantries with Mrs. Contoocook when he pays for his purchases.

He Apparates into an unused cupboard down the hall from his flat. He cracks open the door, sees an empty hallway and quickly makes his way to his front door. He's just about to turn his key when Mrs. Bechstein calls out a greeting.

"Good morning, Draco, dear."

He plasters on a smile. "Hello, Mrs. Bechstein."

"Oh, bah." She makes a face, waving her hand around. "I've told you to call me Ida. Are you just getting in?"

"Yes, I am." Most days, Draco rather likes Ida Bechstein. She gives him leftovers, asks about his health and has all the good gossip on the tenants in their building. She also has an annoying habit of asking after his 'boyfriends'.

"Draco, how are you ever going to get that boy of yours to marry you when you work such ungodly hours? And that's without him knowing about that redheaded man who's always coming to visit!"

Mrs. Bechstein thinks that Potter's Draco's boyfriend. She's also come to the conclusion that Draco's carrying on an affair with Ron, who's possibly married or divorced. Draco's long given up trying to disabuse her of her notions. People believe what they want to believe.

"You know I can't very well choose my own schedule, Ida." A blatant lie. "I'd love to stay and chat but I've to check on Prometheus. We ran out of cat food yesterday." He lifts up said package of cat food and shakes it for emphasis.

Mrs. Bechstein pats his hand in sympathy. "The poor dear. You should ask your boy to move in with you."

"I'll think about it, Ida." He flashes her a smile and manfully retreats into his flat.

He disables his wards and toes off his shoes, calling out for Prometheus. He finds him in the sitting room, cuddled up to Bernice, the stuffed Basset Hound Rose Weasley had won at a carnival and bestowed upon Prometheus as a queen would her favours. It's quite a sight, seeing the tiny gray tabby and the life-sized stuffed dog on the hearth. Draco chuckles to himself.

"C'mon then. I've already apologized for forgetting to restock your brand. It's your own fault you're so picky." Prometheus lifts his head and looks at him with baleful eyes. "Do I take this to mean that you're sulking and have decided that punishing me takes precedence over your stomach?" Prometheus continues to sulk at him. "Well, you won't be wanting this, then." Draco pulls out a tin and waves it dramatically.

Prometheus's ears perk up but he doesn't move.

"Have it your way." Draco moves to the kitchen and grins when he hears the pad of paws on kitchen tile.

*

"Don't you look nice, Potter," Draco says, nodding approvingly at Potter's black suit and the crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat.

Potter blushes, scratching the back of his neck. "Had to appear before the Wizengamot for the Saunders case."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Dare I hope that you wore a tie with that?"

"Yeah, it's at my desk. Bloody thing feels like a noose," Potter grins. "Don't worry, it wasn't the one with snitches; you threw those out, remember? The only ties I have are the ones you and Hermione picked out for me."

Draco and Granger had staged an intervention two years prior when they'd been called before the Wizengamot to testify against a prostitution ring that exploited magical creatures. Draco threw a fit when Potter had presented himself in a suit purchased off the rack from Marks & Spencer. While Potter's work robes had disguised most of his heinous ensemble, Draco had announced that such an atrocity could not be permitted to continue and he and Granger had proceeded to drag Potter off to purchase items for his wardrobe.

Granger had insisted on Knightsbridge while Draco was adamant about Savile Row as Potter could afford the very best. Seeing Potter in his bespoke suit, Draco gives himself a mental pat on the back.

"Have you spoken with Kapranos's widow?"

Potter turns serious. "Yes, this morning. Sun and I went after we went searching for the bottle. No luck in that area. Mrs. Kapranos, though. That woman was something. No reaction at all when we told her about her husband." Potter gestures for Draco to follow him to his desk. "She thanked us for informing her of her husband's 'unfortunate demise', asked when she could retrieve the body and politely had us leave before her children could wake. Didn't seem at all interested about the details."

Potter hands him a newspaper clipping. "Last known photograph of the both of them in public. It was taken at that fundraiser last month where you and Ron abandoned me to the clutches of Lakshmi Srila." He holds out a glossy photograph. "Family picture taken last Christmas. Kapranos, his wife, teenage daughter and young son."

"You love being featured in the Prophet's gossip column, don't lie," Draco mutters distractedly. Draco barely glances at the moving glossy; his eyes are drawn to the newspaper clipping. He doesn't remember seeing Kapranos during that party but he would have obviously been in attendance as it was considered 'an event of great import'. Kapranos is laughing in the photo, a big barrel-chested laugh that was all artifice. He had his arm around his wife who was slim, blonde and pale with disinterested blue eyes. Draco's momentarily reminded of his mother - and of himself, to an extent.

"Mrs. Olivia Kapranos née - "

"Gamp," Draco finishes. He spares a glance at Potter's inquisitive look. "Kapranos is wearing the Gamp signet," Draco taps the ring in the photograph. "Also, your godfather's paternal great grandmother was a Gamp, ergo as was my mother's."

Potter shakes his head. "Bloody Black family tree. I don't remember seeing that ring on the body."

"Probably stolen, then," Draco concludes, flipping open the folder he's carrying. He rifles through the photos he'd taken of Kapranos's body until he finds the one he's looking for. "Right hand, ring finger." He hands the photo to Potter. "Band of skin paler than the rest. He probably never took it off."

Potter hums thoughtfully. "We'll have to ask the local pawnbrokers to keep an eye out for it."

Draco seats himself on Potter's chair while Potter hops up onto his desk. "I recall mother going on about some distant cousin of hers marrying some young upstart with political aspirations about fifteen years ago or so." Draco sets a hand on Potter's knee to dissuade him from swinging his feet. "Said cousin was to marry some Muggle-born who came from money in the Muggle world."

Potter picks up a file from his desk and one of those cheap plastic pens he's so fond of and starts writing. "What was it? A case of opposites attract or a marriage of convenience?"

"The latter, obviously," Draco snorts. Potter looks up at that. "The Gamps never had any head for business. A few bad investments here and there every generation and well...They were far from destitute but they couldn't support themselves in the style they were accustomed to."

Potter's looking at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. When he speaks, it's to ask, "You don't think she might've married him because she loved him?"

Draco gives him a considering look. "No, Potter," he answers after a long moment. "A Gamp would never permit herself to fall in love with that sort of rabble. Moving on, the autopsy indicates that Kapranos died from a heart attack and not from a blow to the head. I'm still prepping the samples in the champagne flutes but I've identified that powder I found on the hotel sheets. It's Spanish fly."

Draco thinks Potter looks a bit disappointed at the change of topic but dismisses it as imagination. "So the thieves didn't do it. The Spanish fly was what did him in?"

"No," Draco shakes his head. "No traces of it in his blood. It didn't cause the heart attack. What's interesting, though, is I found two other compounds in his blood. I've yet to identify them but I have my suspicions."

"Do you want to share them with me?"

Draco smiles. "I've made an appointment with Kapranos's personal physician. If you'd be so kind as to accompany me?"

*

"So, you think one of those compounds you detected in Kapranos's blood is foxglove?" Potter asks the moment Draco steps out of Florean's.

They'd met with Dr. Adamson who had confirmed that Otto Kapranos had suffered from severe left ventricular systolic dysfunction and had been taking foxglove for close to a decade. "Dr. Adamson confirmed that an excess of foxglove can cause heart failure. Now that we know what might've been used to poison Kapranos, my analysis can go faster."

"You think someone put foxglove in the champagne."

Draco nods and hands Potter his coffee. There's a brief fumbling moment when Potter decides to hand him his falafel at the same time he's decided to pass Potter his cup. He and Potter have been quite taken with the falafels sold from a cart just outside the Leaky Cauldron and often purchase falafels there when they can't be arsed to dine at the Leaky.

"We'd best hurry. The Apothecary's about to close."

It's early in the evening and Diagon Alley is thankfully nearly empty. They pass a few tittering girls who don't look to be past school age and a smattering of young professionals. Most of them turn to stare at Potter. Draco admits that Potter does cut a rather dashing figure in his suit and rumpled shirt. He isn't wearing his glasses and hadn't bothered to put on his work robes before they left the Ministry. Even messily eating a falafel, Potter exudes charisma. Draco feels something like affection fill his chest and stop his throat. He takes a huge mouthful of coffee in the hopes of dislodging it.

*

"It isn't foxglove," Draco says, catching Potter on his way out of CCAPI offices.

Potter turns around, mouth set in a thin line. "What?"

Draco's rarely seen Potter's temper outside of their time at Hogwarts. Everything about Potter then had been on the surface for all to see. When he was angry, he would yell and curse and fight. He'd been so easy to provoke as a teenager.

He's different now.

There's a six-year gap between the time Draco saw Potter last and when he started working for the Ministry. In that time, Potter had learned to play his cards close to his chest. He brushes off the bi-weekly innuendo-laden insinuations from the _Prophet_ and laughs off his failed engagement to Ginny Weasley. Draco's pleased that Potter's learned control. He prefers this Potter to the Potter he went to school with, though sometimes he misses the more volatile Potter just as he misses his own bull-headed younger self.

"No trace of foxglove in the champagne flutes but one of the two compounds in Kapranos's blood _is_ foxglove, which is a given, seeing as he'd been on foxglove therapy for ten years."

"So it wasn't the foxglove that poisoned him," Potter says stiffly.

Draco spares a glance at Potter's clenched fist and white knuckles. "The amount of foxglove in his system indicates that it _is_ what caused the heart attack. I made a comparative analysis on the substance found in the flutes and the second compound and they're a match."

Potter cocks his head to one side. "So the foxglove poisoned him but it wasn't the thing used to poison him?"

"Yes. It makes no sense. I'm trying to isolate the unknown but it's a slow and difficult process."

Potter nods. "Put it in your report. I'll tell Kingsley." He turns to leave.

"Where are you going?" Draco falls into step with him.

"Firecalling Lakshmi Srila. If anyone knows who Kapranos's mistress is, it'll be her."

"Potter." Draco lays a hand on Potter's forearm. Potter stops. Draco takes the opportunity and ducks his head to meet Potter's downcast eyes. "The Irish Rose after shift?"

Potter breaks their gaze after a long second. "No." He shakes his head. "I wouldn't - "

Draco sighs and places his other hand on Potter's shoulder. "Honestly, Potter."

Potter still seems on the verge of hesitating. Draco decides to take the choice away from him. "Well, I could use a drink. I'm going. You can come if you like," he declares, sauntering away.

Potter catches hold of his hand and gently turns him around. Draco shoots him an expectant look but Potter just smiles gratefully, squeezing his hand once before letting go.

*

It happened two years ago. The papers had featured it as front-page news every day for two weeks. It seemed all anybody could talk about, as though the entire world had gone into a standstill while the Aurors searched for the 'Jobberwocky', a serial rapist who targeted children of wealthy Wizarding families.

Draco hardly slept during that half month, searching and processing evidence. Draco had felt bone-weary for every single one of those fourteen days then a relief that was almost painful when he finally identified the culprit based on the sweets he used to lure his victims.

Potter, Sun and a squad of Aurors had immediately set out to apprehend the bastard.

Draco, being an analyst, had remained in his lab.

He would hear it later from awed rookies and discussed by veterans with something approaching respect. Potter and his squad had been too late. The latest victim had been a girl of about eight. She'd been dead when they arrived and the murderer had just laughed. No one tried to hold Potter back as he'd attacked the man. Started in on him with his fists, broken his wand when he'd tried to retaliate and just went on and on until the bastard fell unconscious.

They say Sun had to cast a _Petrificus Totalus_ on Potter.

Draco only heard this days after he'd found Potter in the men's loo, bent over the sink, scrubbing at his hands which had gone red and blotchy from the hot water.

Then, it had taken half a bottle of whiskey and three pints of Guinness before Potter would even tell him the bare bones of what had happened. This time, it only took half a bottle and a gin and tonic.

"Apparently the fucking forms weren't filed in accordance with procedure so now this fucking bastard Saunders gets paroled early on a bleeding technicality," Potter mutters, sloshing more whiskey into his glass.

Draco sips at his scotch. Potter fishes another cigarette from his pack and Draco watches as the end flares into orange light. He'd forgotten to buy matches when he'd bought the pack for Potter. Draco thinks he forgot them on purpose; he experiences such a thrill whenever he sees Potter perform wandless magic. All that vast potential finally put to use. He'd be envious if he wasn't so terrified at the thought of all that power manifested in one man.

Potter continues to curse the legal system and slick lawyers. He and Sun had spent five days tracking down this particular criminal and all of that wasted because someone forgot to sign their name somewhere. Draco hums his ambivalence. He can't really begrudge a system that has allowed his family to escape with their lives (and most of their fortune) intact.

Draco lets Potter have at another glass of whiskey before dragging him out of the pub. Potter's too blotto to leave on his own, so Draco Side-Along Apparates him to the unused cupboard across the hall from his flat.

God does look after children and drunks because Mrs. Bechstein fails to make an appearance.

Draco props Potter up against a wall while he keys his door open. Potter's a good deal heavier than he is and a few centimetres taller. Draco's shoulder screams in protest at having had to support Potter from the pub to his door. Draco sighs in sympathy with said shoulder as he manoeuvers Potter to his spare bedroom.

He gets him into bed and pulls off his shoes and jacket. Potter attempts to rise in confused drunken protest. Draco gently pushes him back down and pulls the covers over him. Potter mumbles incoherently before settling on his back.

Draco leaves to fetch a glass of water and when he returns, Prometheus is curled atop Potter's chest, a tiny gray ball against the dark blue duvet. He sets the glass on the nightstand, draws the curtains and scratches behind Prometheus's ears.

He stands in the doorway looking at Potter, at the steady rise and fall of his chest, the bags under his eyes and his stubbled jaw. He whispers an incantation against bad dreams, something childish and impossibly fanciful he learned as a child from a French nanny, before he makes his way to his own bedroom.

*

"We've already got the earrings, we don't _need_ to be here," Weasley hisses, looking around the shop in a manner that suggests he's doing something dodgy while his hands clench and unclench around the handles of their combined purchases - well, more Draco's than his, to be honest. Draco sighs and rolls his eyes. How Weasley ever managed to excel at being an Auror is a mystery for the ages.

"Cease your infernal whining," Draco admonishes, tugging Weasley over to another display and shooting a bland smile at the saleslady hovering attentively at another corner of the display area. "You do want your wife to feel special, don't you?"

"Well, yeah - "

"I'm glad we've come to an agreement," Draco nods, pleased to have his way yet again. He rifles through satin-covered wire hangers, wrinkling his nose at all the tasteless light pink touches before settling on something entirely black. "What do you think about this?" He waves the item in question so that it catches Weasley's line of sight. The man could be bloody _impossible_ whenever he wanted to be.

" _Draco_ ," he wails, mortified, ears reddening. Draco has to spare a silent laugh at that. His goal for the day is to make Weasley blush scarlet down to his neck.

"Yes?" Draco raises a haughty brow.

Weasley ducks his head and says in a barely discernible whisper, "It's lacy and _sheer_!"

"Lingerie does come in varieties other than white and cotton, Weasley, no matter what your wife has led you to believe."

Weasley sighs, a great big heaving production as if declaring to the world his great burden. "That's exactly my point. 'Mione likes practical things. She isn't going to _want_ lingerie."

"Oh, Weasley, you poor sod," Draco smiles indulgently, patting Ron on the cheek. "You've been married to Granger for close to seven years and you still haven't realized? And here I was, thinking her to be a veritable tiger in bed."

Weasley's cheeks redden and Draco silently congratulates himself.

"I'll take that to be a yes." Draco shoves the bra and knickers set back on the rack and pulls Weasley along to the corset display. "I'm thinking this is more to your taste?" he teases, picking up a sheer black corset with white lace panels. Draco displays it against his front, spinning on his heel in mock coquettishness and tossing a flirtatious wink over his shoulder at Weasley.

Weasley breaks out into laughter, shifting shopping bags to one hand. He plucks out a red satin number complete with a matching thong, garter and suspenders. "But you look fantastic in red, sweetheart."

Draco smiles conspiratorially then shifts his expression to a mock pout. "But darling," he says in the poshest way he can manage, which is actually extremely posh. He is Narcissa Malfoy's son, of course. Posh and elegance had been a way of life when he was growing up. "Aren't you tired of all the red? It's all you ever want to see me in."

"Hello, sirs, may I help you?" The hovering salesclerk whose nametag declares her to be Annette has decided that she should lend them a hand.

Draco slips his arm through Weasley's and leans his head against a broad shoulder. He smiles at Annette, fluttering his lashes. "Please tell Ronald that I can't possibly stand anymore red lingerie. Monotony is the enemy of all relationships!"

Annette's smile hasn't faded a single bit and Draco finds himself giving her his silent approval. She gives Draco a sympathetic smile before looking up at Weasley. "Well, sir, if you're adamant on a corset, we've a variety of styles and colours. And, may I say, with your colouring," at this she turns to Draco, "I doubt it'll be difficult to find something that suits."

Weasley feigns hesitance. Draco slips his hand down to thread his fingers through Weasley's, pulling him along as Annette presents an array of corsets, bustiers and basques. Draco behaves like a well-bred fluttering hare-brained heiress at each selection while Ron smiles down at him indulgently.

Weasley chooses a plain white basque with matching lace panties and the black and white corset Draco presented him with earlier. He unthinkingly rattles off Granger's measurements to Annette's surprise and Draco's further amusement.

Her eyes move from Weasley to Draco then settles at Draco's waist. Her brow furrows in consternation. "I don't think he's got your measurements quite right, sir," she says diplomatically.

Draco laughs, tossing his head back. "Oh, no, dear. This isn't for me. We're trying to break the monotony. We're trying to get his secretary into bed with us."

They can barely contain themselves when they enter his flat. Weasley's clutching at his stomach, wiping tears from his eyes while Draco hides his grin with his palm, the image of Annette's resolute inscrutability making him break out into laughter at every other moment.

Weasley sets their packages on the coffee table and collapses on the sofa. Draco moves to hang up his coat and heads for the kitchen, fetching two bottles of Guinness. He notices the bottle of Hangover Potion he'd set out for Potter, now empty, had been washed and set to dry on the dish rack. The note he'd left for him is still on its place by the toaster, though it'd been flipped over and in his deplorable handwriting, Potter had written: _Went in early. Going to interrogate mistress. Ta for the potion. See you at work_.

There's a huge splotch of ink by the _S_ in _See_ as if Potter couldn't decide what to say.

Draco folds up the note and puts it in his pocket.

*

Malfoys and Weasleys have never gotten along. That's the way it's always been. Both houses may share the prestige of being part of that very select few that can truthfully claim to be old Wizarding Aristocracy but neither house has actually ever liked the other.

No one can quite remember the cause of such legendary animosity - it may have been over some jilted lover, a cuckolded husband or even, as George Weasley liked to joke, over outstanding payments due on a few bartered cows. One could possibly rediscover the cause if one searched hard enough through the many volumes dedicated to Pureblood history kept by the Ministry of Magical Culture, but it was concluded that that would just take the fun out of everything. Suffice to say, odes and songs have been written over their bitter regard for one another.

Ron Weasley may have hated Draco Malfoy on pure principle when they first made one another's acquaintance as children. Draco's ill-will towards Weasleys in general, fostered with no small effort by his father, may have been cemented at the sight of Ron's frayed school robes and his garishly coloured hair. Really, how could _anything_ clash with the Hogwarts school robes, they were _black_ , for Merlin's sake. Suffice to say, Ron Weasley's inadvertent fashion faux pas did not endear him to Draco Malfoy's delicate sensibilities anymore than his egregious comment had on their first meeting.

Taking all that into account, their friendship came as a surprise to absolutely everyone. Maybe even to Ron and Draco themselves.

It just goes to show that being kidnapped and locked away in a dungeon by a crazed serial murderer with no one but the rats and your childhood enemy for company for all of 90 hours changes things.

*

Draco watches through a Scopophilia spell as Potter interrogates Kapranos's mistress, one Catalina Sanchez. Sanchez is in her late thirties, Brazilian and undeniably gorgeous. Her lush dark curls spill about her shoulders as she recounts the night of Kapranos's murder. She has dark soulful eyes - Gypsy eyes, as Draco's old nanny used to say - which are currently brimming with tears. Potter pats her hand consolingly and hands her a box of tissues. Her shoulders shake with the force of her restrained sobs.

She is one of very few women who make abject misery appear romantic and glorious.

Draco's fingers tighten around the cup of coffee pressed against his chest. Draco had never seen pain displayed in such a manner before he'd been hired by the DMLE. His mother's sorrow had manifested as something cold and bitter; a brittle thing. He is very much his mother's son and such was the gift she had given him. He feels as if he might shatter at the tiniest provocation while his pride forces the pieces whole again - such was his _father's_ gift.

Draco has yet to ascertain if this new self is stronger or if it is more vulnerable than its predecessor.

Potter rests a hand on Sanchez's shoulder, mouth upturned at one corner in an outward display of sympathy and already Draco can tell that he thinks her innocent.

*

"I don't think she did it."

Draco's more than used to Potter barging in on him while he's busy. "Hrm," he mutters, adding a few drops of solvent to the vials of blood he'd extracted from Kapranos.

Potter remains undeterred, as is par for the course. "Sanchez...she seemed genuinely devastated when I had her recount their last night together." Potter leans a hip on the counter by Draco's elbow, hands crossed across his chest. "I feel sorry for her."

Draco pauses, automatic micropipette filled with reagent in hand, brow lifted. "How many years since you've taken up your post as Chief Inspector, Potter? I can't believe you'd be taken for a fool over a pair of doe eyes." Draco snorts in disgust and returns to his work.

"It isn't like that at all!" Potter protests. "She struck me as genuine, though you and Sun seem to be of the same opinion..."

"Smart man, that Sun, I've always said so," Draco snarks, tapping Potter's leg to get him to move.

Draco can feel Potter's eyes on him as Draco methodically adds drops of chemical reagents to vials filled with Kapranos's blood. He knows Potter's curious about the hows of what Draco does and Draco's explained it to him enough times in the hopes that satiating Potter's curiosity might put a stop to the man's insistence on bothering Draco when he's working, but Potter remains obstinate, spending what little time he has in between interrogating suspects and questioning witnesses, in Draco's lab. Draco's tried his damnedest to try to keep Potter out of his lab but after the first few times, nothing seems to deter Potter and, frankly, Draco feels his focus is best served on his work rather than chasing Potter away.

"She confirmed that the Spanish fly was hers and that Kapranos refused to take any because of his heart," Potter offers, though he knows that Draco had been privy to his interrogation. Draco finds Potter's inclination to musing out loud rather charming, if a bit redundant.

Draco makes noises that he hopes pass for attentiveness as he moves on to the magical residue he'd collected from Kapranos.

"I hated having to be the one to force her to relive it; to be the one causing her unnecessary pain," Potter continues, moving to slouch against the wall in the far corner. "Knew it before I signed on for this. Done it more times than I can count. Doesn't make it easier, though..."

Draco flicks his wand over the Spectrometer, warming it up. He turns to look Potter in the eye. "If it'd gotten easy for you to do so, Potter, then _I_ would have started worrying about you."

Potter smiles at him. Draco finds it strange how the papers and the public could think Potter's smile for the press could be genuine when his real smile looks nothing of the sort.

Potter glances at his cheap, plastic, patently hideous wristwatch and says, "It's half past six. Do you want to go get some breakfast?"

Draco turns back to his set-up. "I'm just about ready to run this batch through. Go on without me. Peasegood should be done with her autopsy. If she's as smart as I think she is, she should have a cup of coffee and a pasty for me."

"Oh." He hears Potter straighten and brush off his robes. "Alright, then. Have a good morning."

"You too," Draco mutters distractedly, silently cursing Peasegood for using up all the alcohol and forgetting to get a new bottle from the storage closet.

He hears the door slide open and Peasegood's nervous giggle. He stifles the urge to roll his eyes.

"Inspector Potter!"

"Morning, Eleanor. Do you need help with that?"

"Oh, no, no. I've got it, Inspector Potter. Thank you, though."

Potter chuckles. "How many times have I told you to call me Harry?"

"Oh! Sir, I couldn't--"

"If you're both quite finished," Draco cuts in acerbically. Really, Potter should know better. And if Peasegood wants to keep her position, she better learn that Draco does not tolerate unprofessional behavior from his subordinates.

Peasegood hurries to Draco's side, setting a cup of coffee by his elbow. "Terribly sorry, Dr. Malfoy. Here's your coffee. Black, one sugar, sir."

"Thank you. I trust Dr. Mitchell allowed you to perform the autopsy yourself?"

Peasegood began nodding excitedly, causing her glasses to slip down her nose. She pushes them back into place before responding eagerly. "It was extremely fascinating Dr. Malfoy. I can't thank you enough for putting in a good word for me. Dr. Mitchell _never_ lets anyone perform the autopsies their first year here!"

Draco nods. At least she's got passion. "Yes, Peasegood, but did you find anything?"

"Before you get too engrossed," Potter interrupts - and Draco hadn't noticed that the cradle-robbing bastard hadn't left yet. Draco shoots him a reproachful look. "Yes, Potter, what do you want?"

"Ron wants me to remind you: early dinner tonight at his and Hermione's. Says he doesn't want you blaming your tardiness on him again." Potter chuckles.

"Yes, yes. Any tardiness tonight on my part will be entirely my fault," Draco agrees, making a shoo-ing motion at Potter. "Go. Get yourself breakfast. Stop bothering us."

Potter grins ruefully and shakes his head but leaves. Draco's relieved. With Potter gone, maybe Peasegood's brain will return to its rightful place in her head.

*

Draco knows he's running late. He usually isn't one for tardiness, unless it's to be fashionably late, which is a trait all Wizards of Good Breeding should adhere to. Weasley and Granger's bi-monthly dinners are hardly events that call for such treatment. They just have marvellous timing, is all, managing to schedule said dinners to coincide with heavy caseloads.

He pops into a liquor store to purchase a passable vintage of red wine and into the bakery next door for a box of doughnut holes. He juggles his purchases and the pages of photocopied medical text - the cause of his tardiness - all while ducking into a deserted corner to Apparate onto the Granger-Weasleys's front porch.

The doorbell plays something distinctly Muggle when Draco presses it. Granger throws the door open, hair pulled back, her fingers covered in flour. There's flour in her hair as well. Draco thrusts the wine bottle at her and reaches to brush the flour off her hair.

"Draco!" She leans in to kiss his cheek. "You're late." She pulls away and playfully glares at him.

He tilts his chin up, raises an eyebrow and says with all the hauteur he can muster - not an inconsiderable amount, mind: "I'm a busy man, Granger. I've extremely important things that need doing. You should be pleased I've managed to come at all."

Granger smiles at him and then, with a smirk, calls out into the house. "Rose! Hugo! Uncle Draco's here!"

There's the sound of a brief scuffle, muffled yelps and the thundering sound of running feet. Draco braces himself as four-year-old Rose Granger-Weasley rounds the corner into the entranceway and launches herself at him. She clings to his waist before climbing him like a tree and hugging his neck. "Hi, Uncle Draco! Hi! You can be scorekeeper! We were playing ride the Hippogriffs but I ended up with Uncle Harry and he isn't as fast as Dad! I yelled at him and pulled his hair to make him go faster but he was being stubborn so I kicked him in the ribs! I couldn't let Hugo win!"

Draco wraps an arm around her for support and kisses the part in her hair. "Potter can be extremely mulish when it suits him to be," he agrees. He feels arms wrap around his leg and looks down to see Hugo staring solemnly up at him. Draco smiles. "Hello, Hugo." He runs his fingers through Hugo's hair and takes him by the hand.

He shoots an unrepentantly smiling Granger a look that promises terrible things in her immediate future before herding the children back to the den. Once there, he sees the casualties of their game: Weasley is leaning against the sofa, gasping for breath while Potter is flat on the floor, clutching at his side.

"I see what you mean about pathetic, Rose," Draco declares. "Potter and your father seem all the worse for wear."

Potter lets out a shamelessly theatrical groan. "Draco. Save us from our ruthless taskmasters."

Rose wriggles, wanting to get down and Draco complies. He watches her run to Potter's side, bend down to examine his 'wound' before jumping on him. "Uncle Harry, you faker! Get up, get up! Quitters never win!"

Draco chuckles, taking a seat on the couch next to Weasley's head. He hauls Hugo onto his lap and starts a subdued conversation with him, Weasley's exaggerated pants and Rose's admonishments becoming background noise. If Draco were one to have favourites, then of the Granger-Weasleys, his favourite would have to be Hugo.

Rose is brave, loud, stubborn and undeniably hilarious - her antics have quickly become legend among the department staff, thanks in most part to last year's office Christmas party where she cajoled Head Auror Shacklebolt into wearing a bonnet before promptly up-ending an entire bowl of punch in his lap. But while Draco adores her, he finds Hugo's quiet intelligence to be more his taste.

Hugo is undeniably a younger sibling. He defers to Rose on all matters and is mostly a willing accomplice. If not for her, Hugo would be content to sit and study the world through his bright discerning eyes.

Draco _likes_ Hugo because, while he adores Rose, he can see Hugo growing up to be someone he can with impunity say he'll admire and respect as a person. He can't fully explain why he's so taken with the boy but, as he's come to realize over the past few years, it doesn't really matter.

Their little _tête-à-tête_ is rudely interrupted by Weasley gasping out, "You're late! Why're you late?"

Draco rolls his eyes and sighs, both actions greatly exaggerated for Hugo's sake. "Very astute, Ronald. Hugo please never take to the habit of stating the obvious as per your father's example."

Hugo laughs, bright and cheerful. "Late! Late! Late!"

Draco dramatically collapses back against the couch. "I see I am to be ganged up on."

"Answer the question, Draco," Ron smirks, reaching up to tickle Hugo's sides. In the far corner, Rose has cajoled Potter into braiding candy wrappers into her hair. Well, less braiding and more knotting, Draco amends.

"Weasley, what was that rule your wife put into place when we started having these dinners?" Draco waits a beat before continuing. "No talking about work."

Weasley shrugs, scooping Hugo up and settling the laughing boy on his shoulders. "I had Harry remind you, so if 'Mione asks, don't start that business about it being my fault again."

"What did you find?" Potter's question earns him a disgruntled poke from his mistress, Queen Rose Granger-Weasley, High Empress of All She Surveys, Most Especially of Hugo Granger-Weasley, Her Royal Indentured Servant/Dress-Up Doll.

Draco has to stifle his laughter when Potter immediately apologises to her and resumes braiding her hair. Potter's still looking at him encouragingly, though. Draco relents. "Went to the London Public Library to do some research. I found something extremely interesting."

"Well? What is it?"

Granger comes into the room before Draco can reply. She's carrying a wooden spoon and is glaring at both him and Potter - quite a feat as they're both on opposite sides of the room.

"No shop-talk," she says, stern. "You can do that after dinner. Now, I'll need help if we're to have dinner on the table before seven." She shoots both her husband and Draco meaningful looks. "Harry, stay and watch Rose and Hugo, would you?"

*

He will never admit it out loud but he sincerely likes watching Granger and Weasley interact with each other. At Hogwarts, when he respectively thought of them as a Muggle-born upstart and a Pureblood traitor, he would never have seen them as becoming anything more than friends. In fact, their friendship itself was something of a puzzle to him. He didn't think they even liked one another that much, what with all their constant bickering.

The budding sexual tension between them was something of a running gag back then, something oft commented upon by the majority of their peers and even by some of the faculty. More than once Draco remembers using it as a weapon to provoke Weasley and humiliate Granger. He was taught that anything could be made into a weapon, so he saw an opportunity and used it though he himself couldn't perceive it.

Granger will always be devoting herself to something she sees as a great cause, perpetually searching for answers to questions no one has ever thought to ask. She's a futurist. Whenever she speaks of her pending proposals and reforms Draco can almost see their world spiraling out before him, how integration is and always has been the next big step in Wizarding Evolution. Sometimes, Draco has to excuse himself from her presence when she's in one of her moods, when she draws him into conversations about politics and history and the future of the magical world. It isn't that she bores him. The complete opposite, actually: he can hardly breathe; the implications of her postulations are stifling in their inevitability.

Weasley, on the other hand, is very laid-back - to the point that it's almost earned him a reputation as a slacker - and can be extremely charming when the mood strikes him. He's also quick-tempered. Quick to hurt and quick to heal. Weasley's a pragmatist. While his wife sets the future into motion, he keeps her head out of the clouds. This, Draco thinks, is probably what's kept them together all these years: he isn't in awe of her because he loves her.

Draco surreptitiously observes them through his lashes. Every few minutes or so, Wesley abandons his task to hover over Granger, snatching apple slices, teasing her technique and getting his hand slapped in retaliation. At the start of their friendship, Draco was startled when he'd realized that he'd been observing them interact and was even more surprised when he'd realized that he enjoyed watching them.

They were such distinct personalities in their own right. Seeing Weasley orbiting Granger was something of a pleasant change of status quo.

Draco pauses his salad-making and takes a mouthful of wine. How has his life come to this? Cooking the Muggle way in the warm and bright Granger-Weasley kitchen, watching them both argue to the sounds of Potter playing with their children in the sitting room was never something he thought he could want.

It makes him happy, though.

*

Potter's bent over his desk, glasses perched on his nose, left hand buried in his hair, face scrunched up in concentration, writing a report when Draco taps him on the head. Potter's disgruntled expression melts away at the sight of Draco's enormous grin.

"It's quinine!" Draco can't quite keep his pride from spilling out. He knows he looks self-satisfied but he reasons that his smugness is well justified.

Potter just looks confused. "Er, I thought it was foxglove."

"Yes, yes it is but whoever killed Kapranos used quinine to poison him."

Potter's head tilts to one side, brow furrowed. "The culprit used quinine to poison him with foxglove," he says slowly.

Draco sighs. "Remember your Potions lessons. Specifically with regards to the subtleties of dosing."

Potter still looks confused.

"Merlin," Draco curses. He conjures up a chair and glares imperiously at Potter to budge over. "You don't actually absorb everything in the dose you take orally, Potter. Your body has enzymes that inactivate a high percentage of whatever dose of potion you ingest."

Potter bites his lower lip, cheap plastic pen tapping a staccato on half-filled parchment. "So something must have been done to Kapranos's enzymes that caused them to _not_ inactivate the foxglove he was taking? He had a massive amount of digitalis in his body and that caused his heart attack?"

"Very good, Potter," Draco says condescendingly. "The same enzymes that act on foxglove act on quinine. While the enzymes are busy inactivating quinine, foxglove has free reign." Draco knows Potter will appreciate his somewhat faulty analogy.

"Draco," Potter grins. "Have I ever told you how very smart you are?"

"Not lately," he quips.

Potter rises, tugging his work robe from where it's draped over his chair. His excitement is evident on his face. "We need to make a list of shops that sell quinine, then."

"Maybe whoever did it grew their own Cinchona plant."

Potter visibly deflates. "Oh, right. I didn't think of that."

"And there are at least forty different species of Cinchona, Potter."

Potter collapses back in his chair, defeated. "That's that, then. Guess we'll have to seek out other avenues."

Draco almost feels terrible. "Lucky for us, Kapranos's murderer is the extravagant type and used high-grade quinine." Potter's eyes widen. " _Chinchona pubescens_ and only the Apothecary at Diagon Alley actually bothers to stock that, it's extremely difficult to get hold of, much less cultivate."

Potter's mouth is agape and his expression is that of disbelief. Draco smirks at him. "What are you doing, you lazy arse? Sitting about when we've a case to solve." Draco stands up and makes a show of brushing off his robes and shaking his head in mock disgust. "Come along now. We've disgruntled shopkeepers to rouse."

*

Draco studies Taran Kipkoech's huddled form dispassionately. The boy is shivering in his cheap leather jacket. He's looking up at Potter with trepidation, an expression at odds with his fake Mohawk and pierced eyebrows, lip and ears. Draco chuckles to himself at Potter's strategy, which - though clichéd to the extreme - is extremely effective. Potter's towering over Kipkoech, who's literally stuck to his chair. On the table, directly in the boy's line of sight, are the photos Draco had taken while he'd conducted his autopsy. Potter's drumming an impatient staccato on the table, lines on his face indicating his displeasure as he intimidates a confession out of Kipkoech.

It had been almost too easy, Draco reflects. This first shop they'd visited had been Slug and Jiggers in Diagon Alley. Potter had tried to charm old Mr. Jiggers into letting them see his ledgers and when that failed, he had regressed into the usual song and dance of obstruction of Ministry-sanctioned justice.

Mr. Jiggers had just stared at Potter contemptuously. Draco knew the old man believed that he had nothing to fear from the Ministry - Slug and Jiggers had been in business since 1264 and their shop had pioneered the need for establishing Diagon Alley - and he was right. It had taken copious amounts of shoptalk and name-dropping (Severus Snape had apparently been a highly valued customer) on Draco's part before the old man finally relented and showed them his meticulously kept ledgers.

Other than Etienne Took, Hogwarts' current Potions professor, there had been only one other name in that book that had stood out: Taran Kipkoech the bellhop.

There's a general rule shared by the police agencies Draco has worked with. Since he's consulted with a sizeable number of them, he can safely assume that this rule is employed by all law enforcement agencies the world over, be they Wizarding or Muggle.

Means and opportunity are primary; motive is only secondary.

Draco isn't entirely convinced of Kipkoech's guilt - he doesn't seem smart enough. At present, a team of Aurors and Peasegood are searching Kipkoech's flat for the champagne bottle and any evidence that may corroborate Mr Jiggers' record of his quinine purchases.

In the Interrogation Room, Kipkoech is doing his best unflappability. He's shaking his head, lifting his quivering chin to look Potter in the eye and systematically denying every one of Potter's accusations. _A lot of people buy quinine, it isn't against the law, I don't know Mr. Kapranos other than he's been in the paper a few times - I don't even know what he does for the Ministry!, I got the champagne from the hotel cellar, where else would I have gotten it, I can't certainly have bought it! They don't pay me enough..._

He isn't very convincing.

"Tell me, then," Potter interrupts, deceptively casual. "How can someone with _your salary_ afford to buy quality quinine?"

Kipkoech's eyes widen. He refuses to speak after that and demands a solicitor be provided for him. Draco finds it a welcome change after all his previous blathering.

Potter leans in close until he's nose to nose with Kipkoech. His smile is something approaching dark. Draco feels his breath catch in his throat.

"You'll talk eventually, Mr. Kipkoech," Potter says softly. "It takes five days for a Veritaserum permit to be approved. In your case, seeing as how you've harmed one of the Ministry's own, they'll approve it in three."

Potter pulls away and looks dispassionately down at Kipkoech. The boy's sweating bullets now.

Draco thinks that the Wizarding World has forgotten who Harry Potter really is. Behind the shy smiles and the intense need for privacy, he isn't just another Ministry worker or media darling. People have short memories; it doesn't help that they only want to remember the things they like.

Somewhere in the last ten years, everyone's managed to ignore the fact that Potter's the most powerful wizard in existence. It's not a secret that Potter prefers things the way they are, prefers that the press and the people and the government see him as a jilted lover, a keeper of the peace and as a status symbol. He prefers this to the alternative.

Draco sometimes finds himself contemplating how Potter would have shaped the world if he'd embraced that power instead of keeping it under tight reign. But those are just the early morning musings of the sleep-deprived. He usually concludes that Potter wouldn't be any different in that imaginary world than he is now, except he'd run himself ragged trying to save everyone because of course _Potter_ would think that that would be the price for power.

Draco looks up when Potter enters the viewing room. Potter's hair is sticking up at angles on his head where he's run his fingers through it. Draco lets some of his amusement show on his face. He hands Potter a cup of coffee - no sugar but with as much cream as it could stand and still call itself coffee.

Potter takes a grateful sip.

"Long day ahead."

Potter shoots Draco a contemplative look, head tilted to the side. "You don't think he did it."

"No," Draco makes a face. "Neither do you. Boy clearly isn't smart enough."

Potter sighs, shifting to lean against the wall. He scrubs the back of his neck. "He's all we have to go by at the moment."

They both look up when the door opens. It's Peasegood, and she's hovering half in and half out of the room. Draco thinks that's a rather apt metaphor for Peasegood's life.

"Inspector Potter." She blushes. She turns to Draco. "Sir, we've managed to find two champagne bottles in Mr. Kipkoech's flat. There are a few receipts of quinine purchases from Slug and Jiggers."

Draco dismisses her with a nod. "I'll see you in the lab."

Next to him, Potter huffs out a long breath. "I'm going to fire-call Kipkoech's employer, ask for whatever file they have on him."

Draco turns to him, about to suggest they meet for lunch in the break room when they're done but stops before he can say anything. There's a clump of hair on Potter's head that's sticking out in an utterly unattractive manner. Draco reaches up to smooth it into place. Potter catches him by the wrist mid-motion.

Draco raises an eyebrow and Potter loosens his hold but doesn't let go. He looks at Draco, curious, then chuckles when he feels Draco's fingers comb through his hair.

There's a muffled squeak behind them and Potter drops his hand. Draco moves away, shooting Peasegood a displeased look. She looks as if she's ready to burst - curious, that - before turning, all but running from the room.

Draco shakes his head, following in her wake.

*

It's midmorning and Draco's functioning purely on coffee and excitement. He finds Potter in the staff break room, cartons of Thai takeaway set out in front of him, box of Pad Thai in one hand, chopsticks in the other. Draco relieves Potter of both the noodles and chopsticks and sits on the empty chair next to him.

"Oi, I was eating that."

Draco smiles at him charmingly.

Potter sighs, looking very much put upon. "You have your own, you know," he mutters before picking up a new set of chopsticks and opening up said carton of noodles.

"One of the bottles came up positive for quinine residue," Draco shares after a prolonged period of silent chewing. He picks up a stick of chicken satay and bites into it with relish. "What's interesting is that both champagne bottles were 1964 _Parapluie_ Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs."

Potter stuffs a piece of beef pepper steak into his mouth, looking at Draco expectantly.

Draco takes a napkin - white emblazoned with a garish red pagoda - and wipes at the smear of sauce on Potter's chin. "Raised in a barn," Draco mutters.

"Cupboard under the stairs, actually." Potter grins at him.

Draco smiles, shaking his head. "The champagne, it's an extremely rare vintage. Father's been looking for a bottle for ages." He ignores Potter's raised eyebrow. "In any case, only the vineyard owners are in possession of such fine wine."

Potter's brow furrows. Draco's fascinated by the resulting crease between his eyebrows; he's never noticed it before. He finds it disconcertingly charming.

"The Gamps made their fortune making the finest bottles of wine the Wizarding World has ever tasted."

Potter's face clears. "In light of that, my revelation doesn't seem as exciting."

Draco curls his upper lip and pokes Potter's jaw with his chopsticks. Potter dodges, laughing. "Alright, already." He restrains Draco's wrist, eyes sparkling with mirth. "It seems Mr. Kipkoech has a second job."

Draco reaches for another stick of satay with his other hand. "Incompetent ne'er do well?"

"Draco," Potter chides. "He trains horses. Offers his services as a riding teacher as well."

Draco meets Potter's eyes. "Is that so?"

"Two guesses as to whom he's been giving lessons to and the first one doesn't count."

"As I seem to recall, Potter, that isn't part of my job." Draco leans in close. "But it is _yours_."

Potter blushes and drops his hand. "Er, yes, right," he mumbles, discomfited. "It's Mrs. Kapranos."

Draco leans back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest and looks Potter over. Potter flushes brighter and busies himself with picking up an equal amount of beef and vegetables with his chopsticks.

"I'm planning on paying her a visit after this." Potter makes a sweeping motion over the cartons of takeaway, eyes still set on his task. "Do you want to come with?"

"Might as well," Draco says, the beginnings of a smile playing about his lips.

*

The Gamp estate isn't as large as the manor in Wiltshire, Draco notes. It might have matched Malfoy Manor in stately grandeur if not for the hideous renovations that were clear indicators of a Muggle aesthetic. Draco shuddered at the incongruity of burnished chrome and glass growing out of fine Jacobean architecture.

They're greeted by a house elf at the door - female, Draco decides after a moment of consideration.

"Good morning," Potter says. The elf stares up at him with luminous eyes. "We're here to see Mrs. Kapranos."

"Do sirs have an appointment?" she asks, first eyeing Potter then Draco. Her eyes widen impossibly. "Oh!" She exclaims and executes a bow. "Master Malfoy."

Potter takes this in with a bit of distaste. Draco stifles a sigh. He grabs Potter's arm and pushes his way into the house. "We've business with Lady Gamp. Inform her of our presence; we'll wait in the parlour."

Draco pulls Potter along, glad that he's decided to keep his mouth shut and follow Draco's lead when they run into a young girl of maybe fifteen with honey-coloured hair wearing mourning robes.

She gives both Draco and Potter a once-over before addressing the house elf who'd trailed after them. "Sloane, who are these people?"

The elf starts shivering, apologies raining from her lips. Potter, thankfully, cuts in. "Inspector Potter and Dr. Malfoy; here to see your mum."

The girl's eyes narrow in suspicion. The daughter, Draco concludes. She has the famous Gamp chin and the blue eyes of a Black. Draco also notices the number of piercings in her ear, the eyeliner and the leather cuff on her wrist. Slumming with the Muggles, he notes dryly.

Draco hears the faint pop that signals the house-elf's disappearance. Potter and Ms. Kapranos are sizing each other up.

There's the distinct sound of heeled shoes on Italian marble. Draco looks up to see Olivia Kapranos standing by the entranceway, dressed in severe black robes that do nothing to hide her tall, thin figure and paleness.

She barely spares Draco a momentary glance before addressing Potter. "Inspector Potter, will you and your companion join me in the parlour? Celeste, please join your brother in the sun room." Her voice is crisp and clipped and calls to mind the parties Draco had attended as a child.

Celeste Kapranos shoots Potter one last scathing glare before leaving. Olivia Kapranos motions towards a love seat while seating herself on a wingback chair. "Inspector. Mr.?"

"Doctor Malfoy, my colleague," Potter answers. Draco would have told him to save himself the trouble of introductions; Olivia Kapranos knows who he is, just as he's well acquainted with her family history. But social niceties must be observed. Draco doesn't miss it in the least.

Kapranos face remains impassive. "Inspector, Doctor," and there's just the slightest hint of disdain in her voice at Draco's title, "This isn't just a social visit, I take it?"

"Ma'am," Potter face is stoic. "We've found undeniable proof that your late husband was poisoned."

Olivia Kapranos's expression doesn't change.

"It was in the champagne he'd imbibed. Champagne of an extremely rare vintage, as my colleague has informed me." Potter pauses, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers clasped. "A vintage that apparently came from your wine cellar."

"What are you implying, Inspector?" Draco finds himself almost admiring her poker face.

"I think you had Taran Kipkoech to poison your husband, Mrs. Kapranos."

Her eyebrow goes up though her expression doesn't waver. "What reason would I have to murder my husband?"

"Other than that he was having a well-publicized affair?" Potter waits a beat. "Maybe because he'd just filed for divorce?"

Olivia Kapranos says nothing. Draco swallows down his surprise; Potter's managed to keep this vital piece of information secret from him.

"I spoke with his mistress, you see. That's why they'd ordered champagne that night. They were celebrating." Potter's voice is extremely matter-of-fact, as if he's commenting on the weather. "I couldn't just take her at her word, though. I went to the Wizengamot Administration Services office and had a look at their records. And sure enough, there they were, just sitting there awaiting approval."

Something shifts almost imperceptibly in Olivia Kapranos's manner - there and gone so quickly that Draco might have imagined it. "If you're here to arrest me, go ahead."

Something about her strikes Draco as odd, something he can't quite grasp. Draco hesitates to call it a hunch, of the two of them, it's Potter that relies on instinct.

Potter reads Olivia Kapranos her rights and she responds with a request that she be allowed to leave instructions with her house-elf. As she details tasks to her elf in a crisp yet unhurried tone, that strangeness becomes more and more apparent, as if awareness of it gives it strength.

They Apparate to the Ministry and while Potter takes Mrs. Kapranos to be interrogated, Draco hurries to his lab. Once there, he orders Peasegood to show him the boxes of evidence collected from Kipkoech's flat. Coulson, who's running a chromatograph, mutters something insulting about dictatorial blond midgets. Draco calls him a clumsy and incompetent half-giant, calling Coulson out on his imprecise wand movements and the tailing in his set-up. Coulson curses and Draco smiles smugly.

Peasegood returns with two boxes and Draco upends them on a table. He starts going through the pile of metaphorical and literal shite. "What are we looking for, Dr. Malfoy?" Peasegood asks.

"Something important," he replies distractedly. "Go back to what you were doing; I don't need your help with this."

"Oh," she answers, and if Draco were less occupied, he might have given the disappointment in her tone more thought.

He finds it wedged between a dog-eared copy of _Equestrianism and You: the Modern Wizard's Guide to Magical Horseback Riding_.

He strides out of the lab. "Peasegood, clean that up when you're done," he calls out.

Potter and Olivia Kapranos are in Interrogation Room Three. Draco knocks two long beats and two short on the door before retreating into its respective viewing room.

He spares a glance at Olivia Kapranos's bland façade through the Scopohilia spell. Potter barges into the viewing room.

"She didn't do it," they both announce at the exact same time.

"You first," Draco orders. Potter looks as if he's about to argue and changes his mind mid-way.

"Gut feeling at first. Also, she refused to answer any specifics on how her husband was poisoned, which leads me to believe that she doesn't really know the particulars."

Draco hums thoughtfully, nodding. "Of course, she wouldn't know."

"Draco," Potter says, impatient.

Draco smiles. "I found this tucked away in a book confiscated from Kipkoech's flat." Draco holds up a photograph of a couple, both with multiple piercings on their faces, wearing leather jackets and matching studded wrist cuffs. It's a picture of Taran Kipkoech and Celeste Kapranos.

Potter takes it and studies it carefully. "While incriminating, it's hardly tangible proof of guilt."

"There's also this," Draco smirks. "Letters from Celeste Kapranos to Kipkoech detailing their scheme to murder her philandering good-for-nothing Mudblood father."

Draco hands Potter the letters and silently watches Potter skim through them. He's shaking his head, expression shifting from incredulity to disgust the longer he reads.

"Ah, the stupidity of youth," Draco declares. "He should have burned those after he'd read them."

Potter finishes and moves to stand in front of the Scopophilia spell. His expression is drawn and he suddenly looks completely exhausted.

Draco wishes Potter wouldn't take these things so personally. He's fantastic at his job, has the highest solve-rate of anyone working for the DMLE at present yet Draco can't help but think he's in the wrong line of work. Potter feels too much, each investigation weighing heavily on his shoulders. Privately, Draco thinks it's because Potter believes he could have somehow prevented said crimes from happening in the first place. He knows Potter feels obligated to save people - logical, since that impulse had been inculcated in him since he'd been eleven - but Draco doesn't understand Potter's enormous savior-complex. What Draco _does_ comprehend is guilt.

Potter feels guilty for having survived when so many people have not. Feels guilty for refusing to embrace his power for fear of it. Feels guilty for not doing more with said power to make the world a better place.

Once, Draco would have thought Potter extremely full of himself.

Now, he just tamps down the urge to shake Potter until he stops brooding and starts seeing reason. After they arrest Celeste Kapranos and write their reports, Draco's going to ask for an entire week off - for both him and Potter.

He clearly needs the rest. They both do.

 **Coda:**

"Rose, kindly refrain from pulling out your Uncle Harry's hair," Draco chastises dryly. "That isn't the way to steer him. Use his ears."

Potter glares at Draco balefully, obviously feeling betrayed. Rose laughs delightedly from her seat on Potter's shoulders. "Really, Uncle Draco?" She tugs at Harry's ears. "Hi ho, Silver, Uncle Harry!" Her sneaker-clad feet dig into Potter's arms, eliciting a wince. Potter tightens his grip on her shins.

"Rose," he says, warningly.

Rose blithely ignores him. "Go _faster_ , Uncle Harry!"

Hugo claps delightedly at his sister's antics. Draco adjusts the boy's weight on his hip, dropping a kiss in his hair thankful that Hugo has yet to enter his terrible twos - when he does, Draco might just take the Swiss Ministry up on their year-long offer to liaise with their Forensics Division.

It's a fine day for a sojourn to the park. It's late enough in the summer for the sun to not be so punishing yet still warm enough for coats to be unnecessary. Hugo's already relieved himself of his running shoes a scant minute after they'd left Draco's flat, and methodically handed them to Draco to hold; he's now working on his socks. His socks are yellow and dotted with some artist's approximation of black bats. Draco completely understands Hugo's aversion to them - he'd want to divest himself of such atrocities as fast as humanly possible if it were him wearing them.

Rose is wearing a blue t-shirt that's a size too big for her. There's a red and yellow S printed on its front. Draco is appalled that Granger would allow her progeny to be seen in such garish clothes. Rose is tugging at Potter's ears in an attempt to manoeuver him, a game with which Potter happily complies, resulting in a zigzagging gait that makes Draco thankful that there aren't many pedestrians on their side of the pavement.

Draco hopes Potter doesn't drop the baby bag slung over his shoulder. Draco's an only child, so he'd never known just how many things a child might need from one hour to next, let alone an _entire afternoon_ until he'd become Hugo's godfather. It's a good thing Hugo's out of diapers now or else that bag would have been impossibly bigger.

Rose imperiously directs Potter to the swings the moment they step foot in the park. He sets her down and she begins shrieking in laughter, running to the swings, daring him to catch her. Harry laughs, turns to hand Draco the bag with a smile before setting off after her, bellowing out a warning.

Draco shakes his head and shares a laugh with Hugo. He sets him down in a sandbox. Hugo promptly crawls to the middle. "Bucket, please!"

Draco sorts through the bag, pushing juice boxes, spare changes of clothes, packed food and Rose's various contrivances aside before finding Hugo's plastic pail.

Hugo's studying the sandbox carefully like a tiny little mason. Draco doesn't bother to hide his smile. A few minutes later, he finds himself dutifully scooping up sand and setting them in piles as per Hugo's directions. Hugo's eyebrows are beetled together and his bottom lip is sticking out. He's sitting on the sand, his little chin resting on the hands clutched around his pail handle. Draco gives in to his completely irrational and impulsive urge and kisses Hugo until he starts laughing, batting Draco away.

A couple of children with their respective mothers approach the sandbox. Hugo and the children make fast work at becoming friends and set about building an entire metropolis. Draco smiles politely at the mothers who coo at Hugo.

"Oh, he's such a sweet child!" the taller woman exclaims.

"How old is he?" the other woman asks.

Draco looks them over carefully. Sisters, he notes; extremely well-dressed to the point of ridiculousness.

"Two," he replies.

They titter. "Oh, let me tell you stories about when my Darren was two!"

The taller one laughs. "Oh, he was a little devil, wasn't he?"

Draco feigns interest. They keep on that for about five minutes while Draco steadily becomes annoyed with their mindless chatter. He briefly considers casting a Silencing charm on them or transfiguring them to fwoopers, Merlin knows there'd be no apparent difference. He congratulates himself on his restraint, partly due to his being in a Muggle park and partly because he wants to set a good example for Hugo.

Rose and Potter offer temporary relief when they come rushing through: Rose squealing, Potter giving chase. She rounds the sandbox, yelling out: "You can't catch me, slowpoke!"

Potter laughs, happy and carefree. The sight makes Draco smile.

"I'll have Hugo help me," Potter counters, scooping up a surprised Hugo and making a mad dash for Rose who runs to the other end of the sandbox.

Rose shoves her hair away from her face, huffing. "That's cheating!" She looks as if she's about to throw a tantrum when she spots the little boy and girl Hugo had been playing sandcastles with. Her face splits wide into a smile that brings to mind the Weasley twins. Draco shivers, a sense of foreboding coming over him. Rose runs through the sandbox, stepping over the lumps of Hugo's castle. She grabs both children and drags them to the jungle gym. "You'll have to catch more of us, then!"

Draco watches with visible concern as she pulls the two children along. Rose is considerably taller than they are; her longer strides might cause one or both of them to stumble. His fears are unfounded as all three children begin running about wildly between the bars of the jungle gym.

Draco turns to offer an apology to their mothers and sees them looking at Potter with what can only be called hungry expressions on their faces.

Potter's consoling Hugo, who's frowning at his decimated fortress. "Let's go have our revenge, alright, Hugo?"

Hugo looks at the remains of his castle then to Potter. His jaw is set. He nods. "Rose will pay," he says quietly, with all the seriousness a two-year-old can muster.

Potter laughs, tossing Hugo in the air. "That's my boy. Let's go get her!"

Potter grins at Draco and wiggles his eyebrows in a most ridiculous manner. He and Hugo run off to chase Rose and her newfound minions. Draco thinks Rose and Hugo have probably been spending too much time with him; their Black tendencies are showing.

Draco gets up and brushes off his trousers. The ladies make motions to stand and he offers his arm to each of them in turn. The taller one hands him Hugo's pail while her sister latches on to Draco's arm.

"Your husband is bloody fit!" the shorter one swoons, tightening her grip on Draco's arm.

The taller one takes Draco's other arm. "And he's so good with the children!"

They share a commiserating look. "Why do all the good ones have to be gay?"

Draco bites back a scathing comment. Silence is his friend in these situations.

"And your children! They're gorgeous!"

"I bet you take quite a lovely holiday photograph!"

"How did you get them?"

"Did you adopt?"

"With hair as red as that, I think you would've had to!"

"It's lovely that you've taken in siblings!"

How did these women manage to punctuate every statement with an exclamation point? They prattle on, uncaring of Draco's lack of interest in their conversation, which is ironic considering they are talking about _him_ , for Merlin's sake. They lead him to a bench by the slides, in perfect view of the children and Potter climbing the jungle gym.

Their tittering escalates to an unbearable fever pitch when Potter starts hanging off the bars, arm muscles flexing in his white cotton t-shirt, a strip of belly exposed where his tee and denim trousers don't quite meet as he swings from bar to bar trying to tag Rose.

From this angle, the sun beats down on Potter's face, lending him some godlike aura. He's grinning, and the sun catches him just so, emphasizing the whiteness of his teeth, the line of his jaw and the tan on his face, which is just a shade darker than on his arms.

Potter so very obviously needed this reprieve.

Potter had been the one to take Celeste Kapranos into custody and interrogate her. He'd remained unflappable as Celeste had confessed - amidst periodic bouts of cursing - to plotting her father's murder. He'd merely given Olivia Kapranos a cool look when she'd threatened to file a suit against him and the Ministry. He looked on detachedly as Healers had to be called in to sedate Mrs. Kapranos when her solicitor couldn't be contacted immediately and didn't so much as bat an eyelash when said solicitor had stormed into the DMLE threatening everyone in his path.

He'd seen Celeste placed in a holding cell until a trial could be scheduled, filed his report and stood outside Draco's labs for a good fifteen minutes as Draco and Coulson engaged in one of their regular pissing contests. Potter had been so quiet that Draco hadn't noticed him until Coulson had snarkily pointed out that Draco's 'watchdog' had been standing there staring at them for a good chunk of time.

Draco had taken one look at Potter's face before he Apparated them to his flat and proceeded to get Potter intoxicated.

He'd put Potter to bed in his guest room that night. He went to Department Head Gawain Robard's office very early the next day, requesting a week's leave of absence for both Potter and himself. Robard had begrudgingly approved his request and agreed to coordinate Potter's staff for the duration. Draco had then gone down to the labs, got into a protracted argument with Coulson, left him in charge of scheduling, of supervising Peasegood and managed to insult Coulson's parentage all in the span of five minutes.

Draco considered it a job well done and wandered into a bakery a few streets down from his flat. He purchased steaming cups of coffee, a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice, some pastries and a box of muffins.

By the time he'd got back to his flat, Potter had been awake and was sticking his head in the icebox, Prometheus curling about his bare toes.

They had a nice quiet breakfast ensconced in the breakfast nook which housed the antique dinette Draco's mother had sent over as a flat-warming present.

While Potter was busy in the shower, Draco had firecalled Granger and Weasley and had talked them into leaving Rose and Hugo with them a few days earlier than was intended. Weasley had argued that their hotel reservations were for later in the week but Draco had persuaded them with the image of a few extra days in a house devoid of children.

They'd all but shoved them through the Floo after that.

Rose and Hugo's presence played a huge part in lifting Potter's mood. Potter had barely left Draco's flat after the children had arrived. He'd transfigured Draco's sofa into a bed and had only gone home to fetch a few changes of clothing and essentials.

Potter's undeniably fantastic with children; he's even gotten the newcomers to take to him. They're pulling at his trouser legs, begging for their turn to be tossed into the air.

Draco's always wondered about Ginny Weasley. She could have given Potter the family he so badly wants. With the renowned tenacity of the _Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ reporters, it's a wonder that the Wizarding World has yet to discover the reason behind their infamous break up. Six years on and still the papers mention it in their gossip columns. Draco would be lying if he said he wasn't even a little bit curious about what happened, though he's more intrigued about Potter's non-reaction, if he's being honest.

"Oo-er," one of the women tugs sharply at his arm. "I think it's going to rain. Don't you think?"

Draco looks up.

"We better get the kids home!" The other woman stands up. "It was nice meeting you," she does a little wave before striding off to call on her child.

Her sister pats Draco on the arm. "It really was," she smiles. "Your family is absolutely lovely; don't let anyone tell you otherwise." She gets up and joins her sister.

Draco sits and watches as they gather their kids and stop to chat with Potter for a while. They say something that makes Potter laugh and wave at Draco. Draco inclines his head and observes Potter charming these total strangers who are interested in him for no other reason than because they find him physically attractive and are of the mistaken notion that he's a doting father.

Potter seems lighter somehow, here where nobody knows him as their savior. Draco wonders if this is the reason for Potter's sparse visits to the Muggle world - that he might be tempted to stay.

The women leave at the first clap of thunder. Potter, with Hugo and Rose tucked under each arm, walks up to Draco with a thoughtful smile playing about his lips. Hugo's sleepy and lays his head under Draco's chin when Harry hands him off. Draco cups the back of Hugo's head as they leave the park.

Hugo's idly toying with Draco's hair.

"You should get your hair cut, Uncle Draco," Rose mumbles around her straw, clutching a juice carton.

Potter reaches up to touch the ends of Draco's hair, unreadable expression still on his face. Draco waits for a less than witty comment but Potter defies expectation and just rests his free hand on Draco's back.

Rose is lazily humming a little song and pressing sticky kisses to the side of Potter's face, Hugo's making sleepy little noises against Draco's neck, and Potter's hand is a warm comforting weight on Draco's back. Draco hasn't felt this happy and content in years.

They're about five minutes away from home when the rain starts falling. Rose starts giggling and singing a song about the rain. Hugo lifts his head and stares up at the sky in wonder. Draco meets Potter's eyes and they start breaking out into laughter and running down the street.

They're completely soaked when they get inside Draco's flat. They set the kids down in the living room and Rose immediately commands that they be dried with towels and not a drying charm, just like the children in her Muggle storybooks. Hugo's curled up on the sofa, running his fingers through Prometheus' fur. They both look at Potter imploringly.

"I don't see why not," Potter agrees, joining Rose in throwing hopeful looks Draco's way.

Draco pretends to think about it. Rose starts saying please, voice rising in pitch and drawing out the syllables the longer he goes without answering.

Draco throws his hands up in the air in mock defeat. "Oh, alright." He goes to his linen cupboard and retrieves four thick towels. He hands two to Potter, who's helping Rose out of her socks. Rose pulls her t-shirt over her head and says, "Uncle Harry, dry my hair please! Make it stand on end when you're done; like a mushroom cloud!"

Draco and Potter share an amused look. Potter does his best to comply with her instructions. Draco turns to a sleepy Hugo. He prods Prometheus off Hugo's leg and removes Hugo's clothes. Hugo leans against him, eyes blinking owlishly. He's a warm comfortable weight against Draco's chest.

He and Potter exchange their wet clothes for pyjamas - mint green with tiny snitches for Rose, pale blue with white clouds for Hugo - and set them on the couch in front of the television which is tuned to some children's program.

The only light in the flat is coming from the kitchen and television. Draco's bedroom is dark when he enters, but not so that he can't see a thing. He's picking out a shirt and trousers from his closet when he hears a knock on the door.

Potter's standing in the open doorway, grinning sheepishly. "Do you have a shirt I can borrow? I've run out."

Draco snorts and bends down to look into the bottom of his closet where he's sure he has some clothes that might fit Potter - Draco had taken some man home one night, over a year ago, who'd asked him to put on his shirt while they had sex. He'd been gone in the morning and Draco'd never seen him again but he'd kept the shirt. He probably has a few belts, wristwatches and glasses here as well, from a number of men over the years.

Draco walks over to Potter, who's scrubbing at his hair with the towel. He smiles gratefully when Draco hands him the shirt. Draco notices that Potter's t-shirt had turned translucent from the rain, highlighting his nipples and the muscles on his stomach.

Potter sets his towel on Draco's nightstand and strips out of his shirt. Draco watches the play of muscles on Potter's shoulder and chest. His hair is sticking up oddly and Draco is amused that even with hair resembling a drowned rat's, Potter still manages to look attractive.

The rain's beating down heavily against the flat's windows and echoes strangely across the flat and maybe it's the muffling effect of the darkness and white noise, maybe it's the surreality of the moment. Whatever it is, it makes Draco feel suddenly brave.

Potter's unbuttoning the shirt Draco's lent him, towel slung around his neck. Draco takes a step forward, then another until he's close enough to feel the hot puffs of Potter's breath on his damp skin.

Potter stills and meets Draco's eyes. Draco holds their gaze for a moment before reaching up to clutch at the hairs at the back of Potter's head and kissing him.

Potter's mouth opens in surprise and Draco takes full advantage, using his tongue to taste every inch of Potter's mouth. His other hand settles on Potter's shoulder and the contrast between his cool skin and hot mouth makes Draco greedy. Not letting up, he pushes at Potter until he's up against the wall. Draco rises up on his toes, sucking at Potter's bottom lip. He's never wanted anything more than this moment, he realizes.

Potter's hands settle on his hips, his thumbs tracing the jut of Draco's hipbones. Draco thrills at the touch. Potter slides down a bit so Draco doesn't have to stand on tiptoe anymore and begins kissing Draco back in earnest. He isn't surprised when Potter conducts his own thorough exploration of Draco's mouth; he's always known it would be like this between them, the constant push and pull and one-upmanship, daring the other to do better, to _be_ better, to reach higher and higher until they soar or break.

It's always scared Draco. So much that he's been keeping Potter at bay for _years_.

He knows better now.


End file.
